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Jean Dawnveil needed money.

Lots of it.

The schematics he had collected for the new grinder were not cheap. With Da Docta's recent move to Sun Rock Retreat, he did not exactly have a mass amount of funds just laying around.

So, for now, he was doing the most logical thing imaginable - spending more money in the Wyvern's Tail that he did not have and knocking back drinks with his ever-fiery companion, his spider, Evania. She proved better company than the usual locale, and the lot of stair-fallers and vaguely psychotic, murderous Homelanders were more quiet than usual today.

That was fine enough with him. The Undead Elf was more than content to just lean back against the counter, knock back another shot of whiskey, and admire the rather choice - albeit prude, and kinda weird - Forsaken warlock.

Halfway through refilling his shot glass and formulating another thinly veiled attempt at hitting on said warlock, a loud banging noise issued from the far side of the tavern. He immediately dropped both glass and bottle, reaching for his holstered pistol. With a near whiplash speed glance to the side, he saw the source of the noise - some Goblin dame nailing up posters all over the bar.

So maybe the bombing made me a little jumpy. Maybe. He thought to himself, idly using his foot to shove the shattered glass further under the barcounter, now watching the smaller woman make her way around the bar with piqued interest.

Eventually she sidled up next to him on the barcounter, using it as a seat from which to address the rest of the bar. Fine enough with him - the warlock had gone upstairs, by now, and if there was one thing he knew, it was that you don't stick it in the crazy, anywho. And warlocks, warlocks are the very definition of the crazy you don't wanna stick it in.

It did not take long before she had the attention of everyone in the bar. She introduced herself - a name Jean would not remember for longer than five minutes. Betty Brassbombs? Pixie? Something like that. Goblins. - and started to prattle on about some business plan. It hardly really mattered. Five minutes into the conversation and Jean was just nodding his head and saying 'Uh-huh' on ocassion, his attention fixated elsewhere, and not just because she had a pretty alright figure.

See, her plan was not bad. Hell, a private island sounded pretty good. Alone, well rested, surrounded by piles of money. Not a bad life. There was one major flaw in it, though, and that was that it did not place him at the top of things.

There was definitely -something- he could take from her plan, though. That thing was Goblins, the cartels. Those little green bastards had more money than they knew what to do with, and they squabbled too much amongst themselves to do anything productive with it.

Three weeks later, he was in Bilgewater Harbor, conducting negotiations at gunpoint with the head of yet another minor, small-time, dying competitor of the AAMS. Three were already under his control. By now, this was fairly routine. He shoved the barrel of his pistol just a bit closer to the woman's face. She was a pretty damn good lookin' Goblin, at that. Curves in the right places, though her face was a bit scarred up. Minor explosions, from the looks of it. Still, that scarring didn't hide the look of utter disgust and betrayal she shot the men backing Dawnveil. His bruisers, now.

"Listen up, Pixie -"

"That's -Triggy-." She corrected him, folding her arms across her chest and glaring up at him, past his weapon.

"Whatever. Look, I already bought out all your workers. They're on -my- payroll now. Your company was dyin', what did you expect, babe? All I'm doin' now is giving you the choice no one else would've given you. Die, like you would've done, slowly, outta starvation, or invest every last measly ounce of gold you've got left into my operation, and be one of my on-site managers. You've got experience, I could use that." There came a pause, and the man proceeded with adjusting every aspect of his outfit with his free hand. He pulled the brim of his bowler hat down, adjusted his tie around his neck, idly smoothing out every last bit of his suit till his appearance was damn near perfect. "Or, hey. If you can't swallow your pride, I get it. The 'bullet in your brain' option's still there."

She talked back a bit.

He shot her in the foot.

It only took a little bit more persuasion after that to make her see his way. Pride just isn't worth all that much in Bilgewater.

From there, it was relatively simple. He saw exactly what these small-time groups were doing wrong. They were trying to copy the AAMS, and compete with them. Except they didn't have the funds, resources, reliability, or morals of the AAMS.

For Jean's views, most of that !@#$ didn't matter. The only important part was that they lacked the /morals/ of the AAMS. Trying to compete with them would be financial suicide. They just did not have the resources.

What they /could/ do is do the jobs that the AAMS refused to touch, at least without a pile of skepticism and fees. Push more dangerous goods. Sell illegal books of Fel Knowledge to both the Alliance and Horde, equally illegal engineering parts from Outland, Bloodthistle, etc. Provide a market for shadier goods. There was definitely profit in that.

But that wasn't enough, see. What he'd also rely on would be the Goblin's penchant for their goods going horribly wrong. Hell, he might even... push for those goods to be quickly manufactured, as to ensure that they make a mistake. After all, what's the Warlock coven gonna do? Cry to the Watch that their illegal goods bit them in the %^-?

No. They're gonnna do the only thing they can do. Lie, and go to get healed.

'Course, that's where the real profit comes in. He'd use his supplies and assistance from Da Doctas to steadily shove the price of medical supplies up - strictly in the neutral and Alliance markets, of course. He wasn't gonna screw over his own school.

Sid and Osk, or any of the other Docs wouldn't be informed. They probably wouldn't approve of his means. They didn't have to, though - they just had to agree with the ends. They would. That much he was sure of.